


If we do it together, all bets are off.

by FallingFaintly



Series: Do we? Of course we do. [3]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Infertility, Jiminy Polworth, More than a shot-glass Strike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29334312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingFaintly/pseuds/FallingFaintly
Summary: Ilsa needs cheering up. Tequila ought to do it.
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert/Nick Herbert, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Do we? Of course we do. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154387
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48





	If we do it together, all bets are off.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of an ongoing series of stories involving Strike and Robin, alcohol and inappropriate behaviour. Wasn't going to go beyond the first two stories initially but an unrelated black and white shot of two women flashing their bums after a night out gave me an idea that was too much fun to leave.

“You done?” Strike asked, pulling his coat collar up and casting an eye over Robin’s desk where she was leaning over her laptop. They had worked an hour and a half after Pat had gone. This wasn’t unusual, but Strike was keen to sink a pint or two, and they were meant to meet Nick and Ilsa at half seven.

“Yeah,” Robin said, tapping decisively and looking round herself to check she hadn’t forgotten anything. She had changed into a black dress on a quick visit to the loo forty minutes ago. It was nipped in at the waist and as she moved to get her coat from the hook, Strike noticed there was a slight silvery sheen on the fabric that swished just above her knees.

“You’re showing me up,” he said genially as he opened the door and she walked through, “feel like I should have made more of an effort.” Under his coat, he was wearing a dark blue shirt.

“Don’t be daft,” Robin replied as they descended the stairs, “It’s only a night out with friends, not a special occasion.”

“Not sure if I should be wounded or reassured by that comment,” he said, fishing in his pocket for his packet of B&H.

He lit up as soon as they hit the street and walked towards the tube station. They chatted comfortably about the work they had left in the office but never really switched off from, and were soon sitting side by side in the fluorescent glare of the train, sharing a bag of chips, Robin now thinking too about how much she was going to enjoy the loosening effect of a few drinks.

  
  


Ilsa was delighted to see Robin as she and Strike entered the pub, her arms thrown wide.

“Robin! My little dumpling of gorgeousness!” She cried.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Strike muttered behind Robin, “She’s half cut already.”

“Oggy,” Nick nodded, smiling knowingly, as they clapped each other on the shoulder in greeting.

“Started without us?” Strike asked, locating the bar.

“Yeah,” Nick said, “Not sure I could have held Ils back tonight. I’ll come with you.” His tone was light, but Strike’s practised ear could hear something else, and he nodded as they left the two women.

“How are you doing?” Robin asked after Ilsa had released her from the bear hug and they sat down together.

“I am bloody shit, my friend. But I am better for having you two here,” Ilsa declared, grasping her wine glass.

“What’s up?” Robin asked, pulling her scarf off and settling back.

“Bloody horrible week. And today, after thinking the ‘mpossble might’ve happened, I can confirm, I am not expecting. Which I probably knew already but it’s the hope that kills you.”

Ilsa was gesticulating with the wine glass for emphasis, and Robin could hear the thickness in Ilsa’s throat that indicated tears being held back.

“Oh my love, I’m so sorry,” Robin said, running a gentle hand up Ilsa’s arm.

“No, no, it’s fine. My period was just having a lie-in. It’s my own silly fault for reading stories about women who just suddenly got pregnant anyway after stopping IVF,” she said, choking out a sob after a few more seconds of trying to maintain the lightness, and failing. Robin leaned in closer, and rested her arm over Ilsa’s shoulder, their heads together, Robin’s other hand over the one which Ilsa still clutched around the near empty wine glass.

“You’re not silly, you’re not,” Robin soothed her. Ilsa took a deep shuddering breath.

“Anyway, tonight I have decided we are all going to get blotto, and be completely inappropriate, so I hope you don’t have to get up in the morning,” she announced, pulling back and forcing a deliberate smile.

Robin smiled back, reading her friend’s desire to not dwell further on her sadness.

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, seeing that Strike and Nick were making their way back, and Strike’s eye contact with her telling her that Nick had filled him in at the bar.

Nick shuffled in next to Ilsa again, and Strike put a glass of wine down in front of Robin and squeezed Ilsa’s shoulder, bending down to kiss her cheek affectionately.

“Oh sod off, I want to have some fun,” she said, but she smiled at the gesture none-the-less.

“You look nice, Robin,” Nick said, adept at tactfully giving his wife a moment without all eyes on her.

“Thanks,” Robin replied, picking up her wine, “Strike thinks I’m overdressed.”

“Oggy thinks ironing a shirt is making an effort,” Nick snorted.

“I do not think she’s overdressed, I said she was showing me up,” Strike said, after letting them have their fun while he pulled down half of his pint.

“Well, no arguments there,” Ilsa chipped in. “Take your bloody coat off, look like you’re stopping!”

Strike stood again briefly to take off his coat, which he draped over the back of the chair.

“Better,” Ilsa said, satisfied. “But you’re not wrong, that shirt has seen better days.”

Robin and Nick laughed, and Strike shook his head, smiling.

An hour later, the four of them were leaning in, elbows on the table, listening to Strike tell one of his tales about Nick and their youthful exploits.

“...and he turns to the barmaid and says “I know that, I’m a secret shopper, and you’ve passed with flying colours”’

“What did she say?” Robin asked, her cheeks rosy from the three glasses she had already finished.

“Oh, she snogged him!” Ilsa laughed, knowing the story well.

“She did!” Nick said proudly. “And thank you for mentioning the one drunk exploit that makes me look good, Oggy!”

“Well, if we want drunk exploits that make us look bad, that could get really entertaining,” Strike said. “But I need a pee, back in a minute. ‘Nother round when I come back?”

“Oh! Let’s do tequila shots!” Ilsa said, as though it was the most exciting idea she had ever had.

Strike shot a glance at Nick, who nodded with a small, reassuring smile, and Robin who looked highly amused and, he thought, rather gorgeous.

“Right,” He said, a little less dubiously than he felt, and sloped off to the gents.

Robin was feeling nicely relaxed, a buzz in her chest of pleasure at the evening with dear friends and the sense of helping Ilsa forget her sadness.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t do what he did last time he got very drunk,” she giggled, leaning further in, her tone conspiratorial.

Ilsa was delighted with the edge of juicy gossip in the statement, and Nick seemed curious too.

“Details, please!” Ilsa said.

“Well,” Robin said, as though she were beginning a bedtime story for an eager child. “He went down to a stag-do in St Mawes…”

“Oh yes! Polworth’s mate… can’t remember his name” Ilsa said. “God, I hope it wasn’t anything really bad, he’s not too big for Ted to clip him round the ear,” she giggled.

“He told me they got kicked out of a pub because they were trying to put their willies in empty glasses to see who had the biggest one,” Robin said, unable to restrain giggles as she said it. Ilsa and Nick burst out laughing.

“He told you that?” Ilsa said through her laughter.

“Well, he mentioned it a few weeks later in the pub,” Robin said.

“He wasn’t trying to have another go, was he?” Nick asked, and they giggled some more.

“No, but it did make me wonder what else he got up to, he was like death warmed up when he got back,” Robin said.

“I think we should ask him,” Ilsa said, and Robin’s eyes widened as she assessed if she was going to regret sharing the story.

Strike was making his way back, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a little stack of shot glasses in the other.

“Ok, now remember this was Ilsa’s idea, so she takes the blame for your hangover,” Strike said as he settled himself, unscrewed the lid and filled each shot glass. “Bollocks, I left the lime at the bar.”

“I’ll get it,” Nick said, “need a pee myself.”

“Oh, hurry up!” Ilsa complained. “I want to get on with it! Actually, I think I need one too.”

She stood, a little unsteadily, smoothing down her dress, and Nick hovered his hand around her elbow, just in case, as they made their way to the toilets.

“All right?” Strike asked Robin, with a smile.

“‘M good, you?” She replied.

“Yeah. Wasn’t planning to get completely shit-faced, but you do it for your mates,” he chuckled lightly.

“It feels like what she wants,” Robin said.

“Well it is now. Whether she feels that way tomorrow is another thing,” he replied.

“Stupid decisions when you’re with your friends can be helpful,” Robin said. “You can’t be sensible all the time.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, given that you’re about to get your arse kicked by a bottle of tequila,” Strike grinned.

“Oh bugger off, it’s not the first time,” she flicked her hand against his arm.

“I know it’s not. I’ve seen you drunk Ellacott,” he replied, leaning away in mock defense from her hand, and then leaning back in closer, picking up his pint glass, still a few inches left in it.

“I mean shots. I’ve done shots before,” she said.

“Oh yeah?”

“Fresher’s week. Went out with the girls on my corridor and there was a challenge night. I won,” Robin explained, reaching out for a shot glass and turning it around slowly, throwing him a half smile that looked quite like a challenge itself.

Strike breathed in through his nose and registered a flutter of something in his belly that became a wide grin of acknowledging the challenge.

“Winning against a corridor of first year students is one thing. This is me and you,” he said, looking down at himself and then gesturing to her. 

“What are you saying?”

“‘S’just basic body size alc’ol ratios. I’m bigger,” he said, his words sliding together, and he threw the last of his pint back.

“Oh! Has he done it again? Is it conclusive?” Ilsa said loudly, returning with Nick and catching the last bit of the conversation.

“Done what?” Robin asked, not quite following.

“Put his willy in his pint,” Ilsa said, as though it was a perfectly normal question.

Strike choked on his beer.

“What the f…”

“Oh shush, Robin told us what you got up to in St Mawes,” Ilsa waved her hand as she sat down, putting the bowl of lime wedges on the table and a small salt cellar next to them.

“I did not put my willy in my pint,” Strike protested.

Robin realised she had no choice but to engage the line of conversation fully.

“Only because you got thrown out before you could,” she said.

Strike looked at her, his mouth open and his eyes twinkling with a curious mix of disbelief and something like respect.

“Was it a big tankard?” Ilsa was clearly loving this. “Or just a regular pint glass?”

Strike looked at her and then back to Robin, and over at Nick, who shrugged unhelpfully and said “Sorry mate, it’s a juggernaut I can’t stop now.”

Strike closed his mouth, feigning a straight face.

“It was a Pilsner glass, one of them long ones.”

Ilsa and Robin doubled over, screaming with laughter, Nick offered a high five which Strike responded to after a second.

“Right, are we gonna do these then?” Strike said, deciding he preferred to speed everyone’s attention back to getting even more drunk than leave it on the current topic.

“Yes!” Ilsa said, as though she had only just remembered they had a bottle of tequila in front of them, and she grabbed a shot glass, and threw it back.

“You’re supposed to get the salt and lime ready, Ils, slow down,” Nick said.

“Oh yeah,” Ilsa giggled, turning the shot glass in her fingers. She looked at it, a little unfocused, and giggled a bit more, looking at Strike.

“What?” he said, reaching to take it from her and refill it.

“It’s a very small glass, innit?”

Robin caught her meaning straight away and was transported back to another boozy conversation with Vanessa involving Strike and shot glasses and this very topic. She burst out laughing, loudly, and Strike was slightly taken aback.

“Sorry,” Robin said, bringing her hand to her face and trying to calm her laughter down a little. “Just reminded me of something.”

Strike, a little lost but quite amused, said “Should I even ask?”

“Probably not,” Robin said, pushing down involuntary jerks of giggles, and pressing her lips together. He looked at her for a few more seconds, pondering whether to push this one, but thought better of it.

“Ilsa, you need to lick your hand first or the salt is just going to keep sliding onto the table,” Nick was saying as Ilsa poured salt freely over her hand without any of it staying there.

About a minute later, Robin put the salt cellar down after shaking a little onto the back of her own hand.

“Ready?” She said.

“Go,” said Strike, and they all licked their hands, threw the shot back and reached for a wedge of lime.

Ilsa made a loud groaning noise as she put the wedge down once she’d finished it.

“It’s almost like a health kick,” she said, picking up the salt again.

“Too much salt for a health kick,” said Nick as he refilled the glasses.

“So what else did you do that night, Oggy?” Ilsa asked.

“Go,” said Strike, and after throwing down his lime, continued, “what night?”

“The willy in beer night.” Ilsa clarified.

Strike looked over at Robin, who had clearly shared the Stag story earlier, and who looked a little sheepish that Ilsa had so eagerly taken it up like a sledgehammer. He was surprised Robin remembered it. It had been an off the cuff blokey anecdote in the pub with Wardle, and he didn’t even realize it had made an impression.

“Nothing quite as exciting as that. I think me and Polworth mooned a coach,” he said, pouring another shot and feeling the swinging wave of the stronger drink hit him.

“You did what?” Robin said, leaning into him, partly curious about the new information, partly because the second shot had packed a bit of a wallop.

“Dave has a chip on ‘is shoulder about tourists,” Strike said. “There was a coach load of biddies going home after their nice day visiting St Mawes, and he thought it’d be funny. It was,” he grinned at her, liking how close she was.

“Thass really juv’nile,” Robin chided, but didn’t seem very committed to it.

“Y’all right there? Sound like you’re feeling the pace,” Strike said, as she steadied herself by putting a hand on his thigh.

Ilsa clapped. “Oi! ‘Nother one please!”

Strike reached out for the glass that he had refilled, and despite his pleasant inebriation, noticed the exact second Robin’s hand lifted from his leg to take hers.

The third shot was the breaking point for Robin’s self control, though, swept along by Ilsa’s obvious desire to push the envelope hard. Music had been playing lightly over the sound system through the evening, just adding a light ambience to proceedings, and now the twirling guitar rhythm of Coldplay’s Adventure of a Lifetime began, and Ilsa decided she wanted to dance.

“C’mon Robin! Let’s show ‘em how it’s done!” She said, reaching over to grab Robin’s hand. Robin stood as Ilsa scurried round to stand beside her, and they both began bopping together to the tune. Strike looked at Nick, who was looking at Ilsa affectionately. The two women were swaying and clapping as the song drew to a close, and then the catchy syncopated baseline to Duffy’s Mercy began, and Robin raised her hands over her head.

“I _love_ this one!” She cried.

Her dancing got significantly more sexy, Strike thought.

_Begging for mercy, eh, Diddy?_

The sudden return of Jiminy Polworth wasn’t a huge surprise, but Strike wasn’t trying to gallantly hold him back in the face of a killer hangover this evening. 

“I don’t know what you do, but you do it well!” Robin sang, her hips swinging as she dipped her knees, and Strike swallowed hard. Ok, maybe he should be trying a bit harder. Strike jumped as he felt Nick’s hand on his shoulder, not realizing how mesmerised by her he’d been.

“I think we should probably call it a night. When Ilsa starts dancing, we’re a hair’s breadth away from a pub brawl,” Nick told Strike when he looked up. Strike nodded, well aware that the territory had become dangerous for all sorts of other reasons too. He pulled himself up, the whoosh of the room letting him know he was drunker than he thought he was. He reached behind himself to grab his coat and steady himself on the chair.

Nick had begun to corral Ilsa.

“But I’m dancing!” she protested.

“I know you are, love. Dance me out of here,” Nick said, holding her bag and coat, and putting his hand round her waist.

Strike looked at Robin, who was blinking, a little dizzy, still bouncing a little to the music. He really wanted to put his arm protectively around her waist, but there was a sense of being on the edge of quicksand, and he knew that if he did that, he might get sucked under. She seemed to register that the evening was ending, and she pouted, unfocused.

“I wus ‘njoying m’self,” she said.

“Me too,” Strike said, stepping forward as she swayed a bit wider than looked safe.

“I bet you were,” she said, as he cast caution to the wind and slipped his arm to steady her anyway. 

“I was,” he confirmed, “but Nick’s gotta get Ilsa home. She’s drunk.”

“So am I,” Robin giggled, in a stage whisper, bringing her hand up to her mouth to signal pointless secrecy with a finger on her lips. “Are you?”

“Three sheets to the wind, El-cott,” Strike replied, squishing her name up, and she laughed, and then stopped abruptly. They were looking at each other and Strike realized he had accidentally stood right in the middle of the quicksand and was about to sink.

“Corm’ran,” Robin said softly.

“Where’s Robin? We were dancing!” Ilsa was raising her voice now, more belligerent, and Strike blinked out of the daze that had nearly caught him. He shepherded Robin towards Nick and Ilsa who were near the exit. As they got out into the bracing air of the night, Ilsa pulled out of Nick’s arms and spun back to Robin, taking both her hands and dancing to whatever rhythm that seemed to be buzzing round inside her head.

Robin followed her, and Strike stood next to Nick, who was shaking his head a little.

“She’s gonna feel this tomorrow,” Nick said.

“Yeah, but she didn’t feel it so much tonight, so job done,” Strike said to his friend.

“Thanks for doing this,” Nick replied.

Ilsa and Robin were holding each other up now in a hug, and Ilsa whispered in Robin’s ear. Strike assumed it was also a kind moment between friends, but they both started giggling again, and Ilsa turned back to Strike and her husband, raising her arms dramatically.

“Anything you can do, we can do better!” She cried, and Strike hadn’t quite registered what was going on as she and Robin turned, bent over and flipped their dresses up to reveal their pants before collapsing into each other in hysterics.

“Oooookay!” said Nick, rushing forward with Strike to prevent anything more outrageous, putting Ilsa’s coat around her shoulders and leading her away to catch a black cab.

“Night Robin!” Ilsa called.

Robin flapped her arm up in a wave, and turned back to Strike, who had her coat in his hand. The movement of turning after having bent over increased her dizziness, and she swayed into him.

“Weren’t we just here?” She said, pulling her head back to focus on him. 

“Nope, we were in there,” Strike said, nodding his head towards the pub.

“Oh,” she said, adjusting her perspective to being outside and leaning on Strike, whom she noticed was holding her coat and had one hand on her back to steady her. They both seemed to be taking stock.

“What’re you thinking?” she asked, dimly aware they had been standing there for longer than seemed appropriate.

“I’m thinking it’s a good job you’re wearing knickers,” he blurted out, and then realized that he probably could have said something other than what he was _actually_ thinking. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“I mean, cos of the thing, with your bum,” he tried to walk it back, but he was too far gone to be able to do anything but dig himself deeper.

“Were you looking at my bum?” Robin asked in exaggerated disapproval.

“You mooned me, Robin. Can’t blame a fella for looking when you do that,” he said, reasonably. Robin deliberately pondered a moment.

“I will give you that,” she replied, equitably.

“‘S’very good of you,” he said. They still hadn’t pulled away from each other.

When you’re in quicksand, thought Strike, through his drunken fuzz, the worst thing you can do is struggle. That was why he was suddenly completely still as Robin’s face edged closer to his. When her lips met his, and he knew it was far too late to extricate himself, he also knew he didn’t care, and responded to her kiss with the enthusiasm of a man about to take his last clear breath.


End file.
